J. D. Nelson is the author of eleven print chapbooks and e-books of poetry, including *purgatorio* (wlovolw, 2024). His first full-length collection is *in ghostly onehead* (Post-Asemic Press, 2022). Visit his website, MadVerse.com, for more information and links to his published work. Nelson lives in Boulder, Colorado, USA.
Christopher Bernard will be reading at the Poets for Palestine SF Marathon Reading at San Francisco’s Bird and Beckett Bookstore. For a donation of any amount to the Middle East Children’s Alliance, a nonpartisan and nonpolitical organization helping all children in the region, poets can come and read at any time at the store on October 14th, Indigenous People’s Day. Please feel welcome to sign up here or email poetsforpalestinesf@gmail.com to be scheduled.
This month’s issue addresses our fears and aspirations: whether life will become what we dread, or what we hope.
Wazed Abdullah revels in the joy of the Bangladesh monsoon as Don Bormon celebrates flowers and wispy clouds in autumn. Maurizio Brancaleoni contributes bilingual haiku spotlighting days at the beach, insects, cats, and the rain. Brian Barbeito shares the experience of walking his dogs as summer turns to fall.
Soren Sorensen probes and stylizes sunsets in his photography series. Lan Qyqualla rhapsodizes about love, dreams, flowers, colors, poetry, and harp music. Ilhomova Mohichehra poetically welcomes autumn to her land.
John L. Waters reviews Brian Barbeito’s collection of poetry and photography Still Some Summer Wind Coming Through, pointing out how it showcases nature and the “subtle otherworldly” within seemingly ordinary scenes. Oz Hartwick finds a bit of the otherworldly within his ordinary vignettes as he shifts his perspective.
Kelly Moyer crafts stylized photographic closeups of ordinary scenes, rendering the familiar extraordinary. Ma Yongbo paints scenes where ordinary life becomes unreal, suffused with images associated with horror.
Sayani Mukherjee speaks of a bird’s sudden descent into a field of flowers and comments on our wildness beneath the surface. Jake Cosmos Aller illustrates physical attraction literally driving a person wild.
Mesfakus Salahin asserts that were the whole natural world to become silent, his love would continue. Mahbub Alam views life as a continual journey towards his beloved. Tuliyeva Sarvinoz writes tenderly of a mother and her young son and of the snow as a beloved preparing for her lover. Sevinch Tirkasheva speaks of young love and a connection that goes deeper than looks. llhomova Mohichehra offers up tender words for each of her family members. She also expresses a kind tribute to a classmate and friend.
Meanwhile, rather than describing tender loving affection, Mykyta Ryzhykh gets in your face with his pieces on war and physical and sexual abuse. His work speaks to the times when life seems to be an obscenity. Z.I. Mahmud looks at William Butler Yeats’ horror-esque poem The Second Coming through the lens of Yeats’ contemporary and tumultuous European political situation.
Alexander Kabishev’s next tale of life during the blockade of St. Petersburg horrifies with its domestic brutality. Almustapha Umar weeps with grief over the situations of others in his country.
In a switch back to thoughts of hope, Lidia Popa speaks to the power of poetry and language to connect people across social divides. Hari Lamba asserts his vision for a more just and equal America with better care for climate and ecology. Perizyat Azerbayeva highlights drip irrigation as a method to tackle the global problem of a shortage of clean drinkable water. Eldorbek Xotamov explores roles for technology and artificial intelligence in education.
Elmaya Jabbarova expresses her hopes for compassion and peace in our world. Eva Petropoulou affirms that action, not mere pretty words, are needed to heal our world.
Ahmad Al-Khatat’s story illustrates the healing power of intimate love after the trauma of surviving war and displacement. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects on the healing calm of silence after war.
Meanwhile, Christopher Bernard showcases the inhumanity of modern warfare in a story that reads at first glance like a sci-fi dystopia. Daniel De Culla also calls out the absurdity of war and the grossness of humor in the face of brutality.
Pat Doyne probes the roots of anti-Haitian immigrant rumors in Springfield, Ohio and critiques fear-mongering. Jorabayeva Ezoza Otkir looks to nature for metaphors on the corrosive nature of hate.
On a personal level, Nosirova Gavhar dramatizes various human responses to loss and trauma. Kendall Snipper dramatizes an eating disorder ravaging a woman’s life and body.
Donna Dallas’ characters are lonely, bruised by life, and drawn to what’s not good for them: drugs, bad relationships, lovers who don’t share their dreams. J.J. Campbell evokes his miserable life situation with dark humor.
Meanwhile, Maja Milojkovic savors each moment as she creates her own happiness through a positive attitude. In the same vein, Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa celebrates the power of a free and self-confident mind and the joy of spending time with small children.
Tuliyeva Sarvinoz urges us to move forward toward our goals with faith and dedication. Numonjonova Shahnozakhon echoes that sentiment, encouraging perseverance and resilience. S. Afrose resolves to move forward in life with optimism and self-respect.
Michael Robinson reflects on the peace he finds in his continuing Christian walk. Federico Wardal reviews anthropologist Claudia Costa’s research into spiritual fasting practices among the Yawanawa tribe in Brazil.
Duane Vorhees explores questions of legacy, inheritance, and immortality, both seriously and with humor. Isabel Gomes de Diego highlights Spanish nature and culture with her photographic closeups of flowers, religious icons, and a drawing made as a gift for a child’s parents. Federico Wardal highlights the archaeological findings of Egyptologist Dr. Zahi Hawass and his upcoming return to San Francisco’s De Young Museum. Zarina Bo’riyeva describes the history and cultural value of Samarkand.
Sarvinoz Mansurova sends outlines from a conference she attended on Turkic-adjacent cultures, exploring her region as well as her own Uzbek culture.
Barchinoy Jumaboyeva describes her affection for her native Uzbekistan, viewing the country as a spiritual parent. Deepika Singh explores the mother-daughter relationship in India and universally through her dialogue poem.
David Sapp’s short story captures the feel of decades-ago Audrey Hepburn film Roman Holiday as it describes a dream meeting between lovers in Rome. Mickey Corrigan renders the escapades and tragedies of historical women writers into poetry.
Duane Vorhees draws a parallel between Whitman’s detractors and those who would criticize Jacques Fleury’s poetry collection You Are Enough: The Journey To Accepting Your Authentic Self for having a non-traditional style.
This set of poems from Jacques Fleury expresses a sophisticated childlike whimsy. A few other pieces carry a sense of wry humor. Daniel De Culla relates a tale of inadvertently obtaining something useful through an email scam. Taylor Dibbert reflects on our escapes and “guilty pleasures.”
Noah Berlatsky reflects on both his progress as a poet and editors’ changing tastes. Sometimes it takes growing and maturing over time as a person to create more thoughtful craft.
Alan Catlin strips artworks down to their bare essential elements in his list poetry, drawing attention to main themes. Mark Young focuses on kernels of experience, on the core of what matters in the moment. J.D. Nelson captures sights, experiences, and thoughts into evocative monostich poems worthy of another reading.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ pictures get close up to everyday miracles: a beetle, car components, action figures, a boy in a dinosaur costume.
We hope that this issue, while being open about the worries we face, is also a source of everyday miracles and thought-provoking ideas. Enjoy!
does not believe in the miracles of the Mountain Fairies
of the world forgives love!
The poet cooks the word
in the magic of poetry,
in the chain the verses of the verses
stigmatizes renegades
with the measure of memory
in the arboreal fireplace.
Poet, in verse
the storm and the sun in the sun bring,
the figures are planted with love,
under the word
it bakes a world
that you don’t know
fused into crystal…
on the poetic harp you compress it.
The poet dreams
Aphrodite in the light of the lantern,
and he engraves the stalagmites in the cave
in the poetry book
AFTER CENTURIES
After centuries we will get drunk
On the salty altar
we will remember your escape in the spring,
the colors will change,
there will be neither red, nor black, nor green
it will be only blue;
there will be no age, only death
neither school, nor court, nor work,
the whole thing will be like a game…
there will be sea in overtime
life will develop there in the depths,
ships will sail without gas
my dear
The air will be polluted
and the oxygen will be rarefied,
rain will not fall, nor snow, nor typhoon
there won’t be, everything will be the same
in ruins of centuries,
abandoned houses that people are looking for,
fierce wars will be fought
they will cry: bread, air and palaces
with your absence,
that day will come after a few centuries,
where you and I will eat in glass dishes
and we will knit the verses
on the silk fabric,
they will be fed to the spotted birds
and drunk, that day will come very soon,
my love…
these verses will be: proof of a love.
Lan Qyqalla, graduated from the Faculty of Philology in the branch of Albanian language and literature in Prishtina, from Republika of Kosovo. He is a professor of the Albanian language in the Gymnasium. He has written in many newspapers, portals, Radio, TV, and Magazines in the Albanian language and in English, Romanian, Francophone, Turkish, Arabic, Italian, Greek, Swedish, Hindu, Spanish, and Korean.
Antelope Field
There are antelope
in the field down
the road. Okay,
well maybe not
antelope, but nyala
or oryx. & maybe
it’s not a field
but a patch of
garden which in
reality is too small
for the eland &
in reality is not
even a garden but
a window box in
which the cat sits
soaking up the sun.
& since I don’t have
a window or a cat
it’s quite possible
that this scene
from the wilds is
nothing more than a
screensaver that
comes on after
I’ve been away from
the PC for at least
three minutes. Which
I haven’t been, I’ve
been sitting here
all the time. So maybe,
just maybe, it all
comes down to
a plasma rectangle
that is framed by
tool- & scroll-bars
but is otherwise
entirely white except
for the two words
floating at the top.
Field. Antelope.
Putsch
He picked
up whatever
thoughts
were upper-
most in
his mind at
the time
ran with them
for a while
& then
discarded them
as if they were the
children of
a past regime.
Nijinski reminisces
Exuberance
is in an eye
much more
beholden
to the magic
of the mo-
ment than to
the pattern
of the dance.
Inside knowledge
Or:
knowing where
the bodies are
buried.
Or:
knowing when
the berries are
bodied.
OnJourneys
The shape of the journey
has something to do
with color. A small part
but important. The color
has to do with the shape
of those things you are
looking for. Also important,
not so small. The taste lies
on your tongue. Sound is
restricted by allowing one
album to come along with
you. Either earphone music
or that playlist in your mind
cycling through an endless loop.
warning
a storm warning
the butterflies in my stomach
announced the summer plan to intercept
continuous distance
hair fell on hair
the sky turns red as if it knows
everything in advance
my hair fell for
the first time on your comb
which you will never use again
Basement
Human is the basement of the toilet room
Tenement maze of history and stories
No animal in the world has ever died for its cage before
No animal has invented aerial bombs
To first Octobers number
Suck my death
an unborn kitten is knocking at the church of a torn belly
the future flows like sperm from the wall of the gateway
my dead lover gets stuck in my throat where his cock used to hide during blowjob
I dream of having my throat fucked by a nuclear bomb
I dream in my dreams that instead of a strap-on a hydrogen bomb will stick out of my ass
I know that god will not pour anything into my balls during a handjob
mosquitoes and military pilots meanwhile fly towards the scent of blood
not a single military man gave me flowers
only somewhere in the dark a muscular sergeant said: hey fag suck my dick like before death
what if the ammunition depot where I'm already being fucked by a group of soldiers will explode from the fact that I'm so hot and sexy
suddenly I will destroy the army and piss all the military factories with my blood
suddenly I really will be fucked in a minute by the last soldier in the history of mankind
in the meantime they fuck me in all the cracks and call me a fag
I wonder if the soldiers have wives
I wonder how many lovers smeared the mouths of soldiers' wives with sperm
I wonder how many soldiers kissed their wives on the lips after that
I wonder how many nuclear bombs are produced in secrecy
I would like to grow longer hair and dye it blonde
the truth is hidden in the details of my anus
god fuck us all with your voice
we are tired of the silence of the red buttons
after which a nuclear explosion will follow
after fucking a new nuclear bomb will be born in me [?]
Brown town
In the heart of earthy hues,
Brown town,
A needle threads life's tapestry,
Brown town,
A need, a yearning palpable.
People encircle, form clay figures,
Silent echoes of existence,
Seated, molded by time's unseen hands.
Within, dwell stories untold,
Brown town,
Clay figures poised in quiet contemplation,
Sculpted reflections of shared moments.
my lover asked
my lover asked me when i first saw porn
it would be better if he asked something simpler, like how many times we quarrel with my husband
(sometimes it seems to me that love is too abstract a word for our painfully non-abstract world)
my lover finally pissed me off when he started talking about the non-binary nature of human nature
- I call you bitch to suck and not destroy our homosexual intimacy with the philosophy, fag, - I said to my lover while he turned into a statue
my lover is a beautiful antique statue but alas the statues don't have blood
my professional skills as a bloodsucker are now in question
my lover its: not reacted to my bites and slaps for a day
it seems to me that he sailed away into the cast-iron tunnel of the night
it seems to me that my lover dreams of flowers in ball gowns and without graves
death knocked on the back of the room and asked: whose house is this?
and this ruined house is now a ruin
the anti-missile installation of the heart has failed
the night in the eyes of my dead dead man will no longer dissolve
even explosions won't wake my lover
red sky like a bud revealed death
god's assistant pressed the wrong button again
аll in vain
We
Free
Freends
Friends
French fries
With self burger
We distance
We running
Running away from each other
vegetable garden
my body is a vegetable garden in which nothing grows
we're all hungry without the smell of fresh meat and cum
generals fuck tomorrow's dead for free saving on prostitutes
sun umbrellas and winter sleighs are in vain
sho(r)t (hi)story
I want the last nuclear bomb to explode inside my ass
the sun warms the cold body of my lover shot by dawn
the trenches are screaming but no historian
will tell about our buried feelings in the future
the stones are screaming but only the wind drowning in the river
will tell about our buried lovers
No title
the station of tears breaks out and thirst falls from the inside of the heart
let's go to my house, drink my blood, burst my capillaries, tear my ass, tear out my tonsils
meanwhile god's deputy keeps pushing the wrong buttons
onlyfa
the steak burned inside my stomach
the gun kills me but nothing will come out of my vagina
we drink only sperm
my eggs and balls strive for your grape nipple
still life of the world during the continuous noise of a siren
we drink only tears
one cocku
you drink the silence of my moan
and I feel uneasy about spring
which hasn’t come either
part-time
part-time job
being naked in the pristine ruins of houses